


The Letter

by txorakeriak



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Archive Warnings Apply - Freeform, flangst, past-Sparrington, spotted dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/txorakeriak/pseuds/txorakeriak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes in history, Fate generously opens the gates to the long road to luck for a chosen mortal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> The important plot elements of this story belong to [Hils](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hils/pseuds/Hils). I'm just wrapping her ideas in words.  
> The last line is from the poem "I Cannot Change As Others Do" by John Wilmot, second Earl of Rochester.

Commodore Norrington was not a man without any feelings. Like most people, he felt joy and pain - he had merely learned not to show it. He kept his amusement to himself and he suffered in silence. His emotions were his own business and nobody else's.

Even when he was courting Elizabeth, the young woman had to curse him, threaten him, and - in the end - beg him until Norrington finally shared some of his thoughts with her.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, there was one man from whom he had never been able to hide his moods, one man who could read Norrington's eyes like an open book.

Lieutenant Gillette had never taken advantage of it. He had found it convenient to know when to smile and engage in conversation, and when to leave his superior officer and friend to his own devices. He had, however, silently cursed his special talent on occasion, since there were times when it just wasn't enough to read Norrington's eyes. Times when they didn't give away enough and left Gillette worried and concerned. Times when he would have given everything to read his heart.

He had seen it in Norrington's eyes, immediately after Jack Sparrow's escape. A flickering light whenever his name was mentioned - most of the time in a not very flattering content - together with a well but not well enough veiled smirk. Sometimes, he had wondered why nobody else could see it, or at least why nobody asked Norrington about it.

Gillette himself had spent many a minute contemplating the reason for the sudden amusement the insufferable pirate's name brought to the usually so composed officer. It made very little sense; Sparrow had escaped the Royal Navy too many times and was still roaming free, pilfering, plundering, and generally being his tiresome, exhausting self. His latest escape had caught the attention of the Admiralty and seriously harmed the reputations of everybody involved, and if Governor Swann had not stepped in and accepted full responsibility for the damages caused by the most recent pirate attacks on the town, more than one bewigged head would have rolled. That the sound of Sparrow's name would provide entertainment to someone so diligent and committed to his work seemed incomprehensible.

Despite everything, Gillette had never dared to ask.

And when, one day, the answer was freely offered, he suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.

***

He had come to inform the commodore about a dispatch from the Admiralty in Portsmouth that had just been delivered by the captain of the _Rose_ , a merchant vessel currently harboured at the docks of Port Royal. Nothing too pressing, but Gillette knew that his superior officer wished to receive his dispatches promptly so he had made a beeline to Norrington's office without delay.

As soon as he had opened the door, however, the numb expression on his friend's face made him forget entirely why he was here.

Norrington hadn't heard him knock. He wasn't even looking up to see who had just come in. He was simply sitting there in his chair, shoulders slumped, a piece of paper in his hands. Motionless, like a statue.

The words stuck in Gillette's throat. For a second, he pondered leaving the room, closing the door quietly behind himself and saving the dispatch for later. He shook his head. No, not this time. This time, it was different. He was no coward.

Slowly, he approached Norrington and, when the other man still didn't acknowledge him, discreetly tapped him on the shoulder to announce his presence. "I beg your pardon, sir."

Norrington winced abruptly as if a spider had just stung him, taking a sharp breath.

The piece of paper dropped to the floor. A letter, short, but illegible from where Gillette was standing.

He waited for Norrington to pick it up, clearing his throat uncomfortably at having just disturbed what was obviously a private moment. When it became evident to him that the commodore had no intention whatsoever to reclaim his correspondence, Gillette bent to the task himself but stopped mid-motion when Norrington's hand came to rest on his arm and held it in a gentle but firm grip.

For a moment that seemed an eternity, sad green eyes locked with worried brown ones.

"Sir, I..."

"Andrew."

Norrington calling him by his Christian name had always brought a smile to Gillette's face in the past. Ridiculous, really, that the mere sound of his name spoken in his friend's unmistakable baritone could have made him think he didn't need anything else in the world, but it was true. This time, however, Gillette didn't smile. His name echoed in his head hoarsely, breathlessly, cutting the heavy silence. It hurt.

"I was wondering if you cared to join me for dinner tonight," continued Norrington, as if they had been having a casual conversation.

"Of course!" Gillette replied hastily, hoping not to show too much excitement at the prospect of spending time with Norrington alone.

It was a rare opportunity; the commodore didn't often invite people to his home, and when he did, it was usually related to his post and profession. Gillette harboured no illusions about his invitations to Norrington's residence, but he did believe that there was value in the informal, friendly nature of his visits and their amiable and occasionally witty conversation they engaged in. He did not press, did not snoop, and steered clear of personal matters unless Norrington mentioned them first. It was not a lieutenant's place to discuss his commanding officer's private matters, and it wasn't a friend's place to weigh heavily on another's disposition.

No matter how desperately he wanted to be of assistance, he would allow himself to impose on his friend and spoil the perfect, easy companionship the two of them shared. The letter would remain unspoken of if that was what Norrington wished.

He studied the other man's face, the expressionless mask he was so used to. The thin line of his mouth, lips firmly pressed together. Slowly, the man seemed to regain his poise - though the change was so subtle that others might have missed it.

But the look in his eyes...

Gillette could hardly bear holding his gaze, overwhelmed by the pain and the despair which his friend was trying so very hard to hide. He had never dared to go this far. He had always taken his cue to leave upon realizing that Norrington didn't wish to speak of whatever plagued him. This time he had missed that window, and they were both paying the price for it. Already, after not much more than a mouthful of words, he had reached his limit and he knew that he couldn't bear any more at the moment without breaking. It pained him to be of no help at all, to be so useless, so unimaginative, so inept at this. He knew of people who could lighten the mood instantly with a clever witticism, some brilliant remark to break the silence and put a smile on even the most stoic and composed of faces. What purpose could there be in his existence if he wasn't even capable of helping his best friend?

It was at least worth a try. "Are you quite well?" Gillette managed before the lump in his throat became too big to ignore, then rolled his eyes at himself. He couldn't possibly have asked a stupider, more redundant question if he had tried.

"I'm fine."

Naturally, the words were as sharp and resolved as one might expect it from Commodore Norrington, but they didn't sound right. The look that went with them was not one of resolution. A poor lie to get rid of the uninvited intruder.

Gillette swallowed and forced himself to nod. The message was clear: his further presence in the room was neither necessary nor desired, and he would rather die than allow himself to be a nuisance. He quickly excused himself and left.

For the remainder of the afternoon, he would exhaust his brain in a futile attempt to find out what was wrong while Norrington would torture himself with that very knowledge.

***

Dinner passed like most dinners Gillette had enjoyed at Norrington's house. Both men appreciated fine cuisine and valued the formidable talents of Norrington's cook, secretly hoping not to be called out to sea any time soon. They shared pleasantries across the table, discussed the one or the work-related issue that had arisen over the afternoon, but didn't touch any personal matter until Norrington's butler Benton had served pudding and port and discreetly closed the door behind himself as he departed.

Lost in thought, Gillette brushed the custard covering off the top of his spotted dick with his spoon, something he had done to his puddings since childhood. When it came to puddings, and life in general, it usually paid well to save the best for last, and to him, custard was the best thing about a sponge. Or maybe, just maybe it wasn't actually the custard at all but Norrington's amused smile whenever he saw Gillette performing his childish ritual.

"For Heaven's sake, Andrew," Norrington sighed, but his eyes twinkled at Gillette, thankful for the distraction, "are you going to insist on doing this until you are old and grey and incapable of holding a spoon?"

If Gillette wasn't entirely mistaken, there was even the tiniest hint of a smile on Norrington's lips. Pleased with his work, Gillette scrubbed at his pudding some more for good measure. "I might bribe the nurse into doing it for me," he replied with a grin. "Why, James, is it bothering you? I might just as well ask you why you insist on _not_ doing it - clearly, you should trust my good judgement in this, and try it for yourself!"

"I would never presume to separate two things which so clearly belong together," Norrington remarked conversationally, still wearing that small smile, but Gillette didn't miss the way the other man's face hardened for just an instant.

He decided to forgo a repartee, not trusting his wits entirely, but merely smiled and nodded, keeping his expression cheerful and lighthearted.

Quietly, they finished their puddings and then went into the library, as usual, for more port and maybe a game of chess. The board with the little ebony and ivory figures was already set on the table.

But Norrington seemed to have other things in mind. He refilled Gillette's glass and handed it back to him, accompanied by a familiar piece of paper.

Gillette stared at him, suddenly reluctant to be involved in this. Nobody had ever entrusted him with anything of this emotional magnitude, and he didn't know if he could handle it. The last thing he wanted was to see his friend go to all this trouble of confiding in him and then getting nothing in return simply because Gillette didn't possess the mental or physical capacity required to solve his problem.

"James, I can't-" he began to protest as the letter was pressed into his hand, but he was interrupted by a firm, "Please, Andrew. I want you to read it."

Gillette nodded, resigning himself to his fate. He drained his glass in one go in a foolish but ultimately ineffectual attempt to provide himself with Dutch courage, and unfolded the paper with shaky fingers.

As he had glimpsed earlier, the letter was short, concise, and to the point, containing one single piece of information.

Captain Jack Sparrow had been hanged on Antigua.

***

For a moment, Gillette stood there as if glued to the spot, immobile apart from his trembling hands. So this was it. The end of an era.

Then it hit him like a broadside. What a fool he had been! It had all been there, right in front of him, and he had been too blind, too absorbed in his own feelings, to see it. When had it all started? How... how far had they gone? He cringed at the unbidden but inevitable thought of Norrington debasing himself for the pirate, his nose wrinkling in digust, and immediately felt ashamed for it. If he was disgusted by what Norrington had done, it would make him a hypocrite, for he had lain awake countless nights wishing for his friend to do the very same to him. If he was disgusted by who Norrington had done it with, he was nothing but a jealous fool. Which, as he had to admit, was a lot closer to the truth. He could argue that Jack Sparrow wasn't worth the commodore's affection, but had no proof for his claim save for the fact that he was a criminal, but then again, many would label Gillette the same for desiring another man. In fact, if he quite possibly been aware from the start that the pirate was attractive, interesting, handsome and exciting, and had despised him intensely for it, knowing that he could never compete.

He wondered what he would have done if he had found out the commodore's secret earlier. Would he have hidden his feelings behind a façade of friendly concern? Would he have warned him not to get too involved, not to invest too much of himself in something that was doomed as soon as it had begun, something that could do serious harm to his career and his life? Or would he have tried to bring the pirate to justice and end the matter himself, sacrificing the commodore's friendship to save his life?

The black-inked words on the thick, coarse paper blurred in front of his eyes, but he couldn't tear them away. He could not look up and meet Norrington's. He didn't want to know what he would see.

He had nothing to offer his friend. Any profession of condolence or sympathy would ring hollow. At best, Norrington would think him insincere for expressing regret over the demise of a notorious pirate. At worst... at worst, he might as well be aware of Gillette's admiration for him and scorn him for pretending to be seized with grief as his rival was so conveniently removed from the competition. He would never believe that Gillette was actually sorry. For everything.

The grip of his fingers on the paper became painful but he didn't let go of it.

After a long while of silence, a concerned voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Andrew?"

Finally, Gillette looked up.

As their gazes locked, he lost the last shred of control he had over himself.

The atmosphere of the room suddenly seemed loaded, heavy, and way too warm.

Norrington clenched his fists, unclenched them. He was breathing audibly, muscular chest rising and falling underneath his ruffled shirt and waistcoat. Gillette wanted to rip his clothes off of him and devour him right then and there.

He nervously cupped his right wrist with his left hand, keeping his hands firmly to himself for fear of what they might do if he didn't keep an eye on them. His throat felt tight, dry. His fingers fumbled with his cravat, loosening it, but it still wasn't enough. A droplet of sweat ran across his temple and down his neck, and he felt himself blush.

The look in Norrington's eyes was intense. Gillette had never seen him look at him like this. It was as if he had suddenly become someone else entirely. He knew he wasn't supposed to let foolish hope get the better of him, but it was difficult not to let his mind wander as the commodore's gaze wandered over him, his face, his neck, his chest… He would be a stopgap, a consolation prize.

There was nothing he wanted more.

Afterwards, neither of them could really remember how it had happened or who had made the first move, but suddenly the space between them had disappeared entirely and their mouths locked in a passionate kiss. Norrington's lips claimed Gillette's fiercely, as if he was holding to something that could be lost any minute, hands tearing at Gillette's shirt. The lieutenant responded just as eagerly, as if his life depended on feeling that mouth against his and the heat of Norrington's body against his own. A few buttons came loose, dropping noisily to the floor. It was better than anything he could have hoped for.

When they had finally divested each other of their waistcoats, they broke the kiss, breathless, standing there with their shirts agape, both faces flushed with arousal, breeches way too tight, and for a moment they seemed both confused, perplexed, at their own actions. Neither of them was known to lose control. Neither of them had planned this or knew how it would continue. But they had passed the point of no return. It was too late to make it all undone.

While Gillette was still coming to terms with the sensations that overwhelmed him, absently tracing the taste of Norrington's lips on his own with his tongue, the commodore took his lieutenant's shaking hand and pulled him gently but firmly towards the staircase, up to his bedroom, and into his bed.

***

Norrington was already asleep when Gillette put the blanket aside, got out of the bed and stepped to the window. The sky was dark except for the full moon bathing the beach in a pale glow. Nothing stirred, except for the waves crashing against the shore. A typical Caribbean night, like any other. Only it wasn't, at all.

He hadn't slept all night. How could he sleep, with that perfect man lying next to him, this fine specimen of a human that he had so long coveted, wanted, desired and never thought he could have? How could he sleep with so many thoughts running through his head, a waterfall of emotions crashing over him again and again, and none of them making sense?

Gillette wondered when he had first come to suspect that Norrington didn't much care for women. Though maybe he hadn't so much suspected it as wished it, interpreting the commodore's reluctance for courtship and the way he blundered through his attachment to Elizabeth as lack of interest instead of lack of experience. In retrospect, he was actually surprised to have succeeded in toning down his own affection and admiration for his superior officer enough not to cause suspicion. Or at least, that was what Gillette had always told himself it was, because it was easier to understand and less dangerous to pursue. In reality, it was nothing like that. For the very first time in his life and probably for the last, he was truly, madly and deeply in love.

Gillette looked back to the bed where Norrington was sleeping, partially wrapped in his blanket and in the moonlight, pale on pale skin. He was beautiful. Looking at him now, he almost couldn't believe that he had felt his friend's elegant hands on his skin, that he had kissed those addictive lips, that he had seen this handsome face become even more handsome with lust, with release. For _him_. Because of _him_.

It was so easy to become possessive, to never want to let go, but he wouldn't fool himself. As beautiful as this dream was, it was just that, a dream. It would end, as dreams were wont to, with the arrival of the new day.

Abruptly, Gillette tore his gaze from his friend's figure and stared out of the window instead, at grey clouds wandering slowly across the night sky. It hurt to look at him, to know he would never be his, and his alone. Norrington had welcomed Gillette into his home and his bed because he had been there, available, and more than willing. He was flesh and blood, not ink on a piece of paper. He was alive, not a decaying corpse hanging from a rope.

Jack Sparrow, the accursed pirate, had taken away the only person Gillette had always wanted to hold and never wanted to lose, just like he had taken away the _Dauntless_ on that fateful day: with wit, charm, and bravado.

A single tear made its way down Gillette's cheek and died in the corner of his lips, licked away hurriedly. He would not cry. Not here.

Quickly, he collected his clothes, dressed, and left.

***

The next morning passed very slowly. Gillette had decided to stay in his office for as long as possible, not wanting to see anyone, not wanting to speak with anyone.

He wanted privacy – and most important of all, he didn’t want to talk to Norrington about anything that happened the day before. Norrington would beg his forgiveness, of course, being the gentleman he was brought up to be, but Gillette didn’t want to hear any of it. He didn’t want his friend to feel sorry for what they had done, especially since he couldn’t even decide for himself if he regretted the night they had spent together. He knew he should, but it had been everything he had wanted, and it had been given to him freely. Not for the right reasons, of course – and that was exactly it, wasn't it? While he had made love to Norrington, Norrington had fucked him. It had felt good, too good to be true, but it hadn’t been right.

Any excuse would only make it worse.

So he had tried to avoid Norrington’s presence, until the pile of messages on his desk had toppled over, dispatches and papers scattering all across the floor. He had to deliver those messages, instruct his subordinates, hand out orders, and – if he wanted to or not – he had to report to Norrington.

Sighing, he picked up the papers and left his office.

The commodore was in his office when he knocked. An all too familiar situation, except for the “Come in!” bellowed against the door. Norrington was far from cheerful, judging from the tone of his voice, but this was nothing unusual. The duties of the commanding officer of His Majesty's Navy in Port Royal were tough, difficult, and consumed lots of time and effort. He needed to inspire respect and confidence in his subordinates, to keep them committed.

Gillette opened the door and went inside.

“Sir, I have some dispatches for you," he said, putting them on Norrington’s desk, careful not to disarrange the orderly piles of paper already present. He knew that Norrington arranged these precisely as he needed them and he didn’t want to know what would happen if he interfered with that order, especially now. In any case, it would mean for him to spend a longer time in Norrington’s office than he had intended.

Without looking up, the commodore accepted the papers with a nod, put them in their proper place, and neatened the edges.

Just as Gillette was about to leave, trying not to appear too relieved about having escaped from the situation unscathed, Norrington fixed his gaze on him. "Oh – Gillette! I would be honoured if you could join me for dinner again tonight." His voice was low, discreet.

Gillette had no doubts whatsoever what this "dinner" would entail, and he had half a mind to decline, to claim previous engagements, but he doubted he would be able to lie convincingly. So he nodded, faked a smile, managed a polite "The honour would be all mine," and hurried out of the room without waiting for the other man to properly dismiss him.

***

When he knocked on Norrington's door later, punctual, immaculately dressed, he was no longer just apprehensive but entirely miserable. This was the moment he had been dreading. The one good reason why he should never have allowed the previous night to happen.

Norrington himself opened the door for him. "Andrew!" he greeted the other man with a smile and gestured him to enter. "We have to serve ourselves today, I'm afraid. It's Benton's free evening."

***

The meal was uneventful. Gillette ate dutifully but hardly acknowledged the taste of his food, wishing for the first time in his life to be anywhere but in Norrington's presence. Finally, the plates were cleared away and they found themselves in the very same position as the previous night, before they had lost control. Only this time, the commodore kept his distance, one hand clutching the backrest of a large armchair, the other hand holding a glass of port.

The two men stood there in silence for a while, sipping their liquor, which was clearly the safest thing to do in this situation.

When Norrington eventually cleared his throat, breaking the silence, Gillette almost winced. "I suppose I owe you an explanation."

 _Oh please, don't…_ Gillette felt as if he would faint. He couldn't do this. He didn't want to do this. What would Norrington expect him to say? Thank you, glad to oblige? I'm sorry, too? Nevermind? They had crossed the line the previous night, and that wasn't something that could be made undone or amended by words, even if words were all they had.

Norrington let out a little cough, his discomfort obvious, and only then, Gillette realized how close he was standing, how quickly he had approached. Had he been daydreaming?

”I’m sorry, James. I-“ he hurried to say, but the other man shook his head.

“Please.”

Gillette felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly. Norrington had done this many times in the past; somehow he had always known when his friend was tense or preoccupied, and his touch had always helped him relax. This time, the gesture did not calm him. It only made him look up, his eyes locking with Norrington's, gazing right into that damned mirror that had started this entire mess.

While last night, his friend's eyes had been bleary with pain and sorrow, they shone brightly with affection tonight.

Or did they really? Wasn't it more likely that Gillette had deluded himself so thoroughly that he had lost the ability of reading his friend and was projecting his own wishes and desires on him? Had Gillette lost his head as well as his heart?

Not that it would make any difference.

“Andrew, I want to tell you that I-“ the commodore began, but Gillette – for what had to be the first time in his life – didn't let him finish.

“Please, James," he begged, "do not do this. I know what you want to say and you don’t have to say it. It won’t change anything, I assure you.” No matter whether his devotion to the other man was requited or not, there would be no future in it. The articles of war were inescapably clear on the subject, and he would never dare put both their lives at risk for his own selfish desires. Though that didn't mean he'd ever stop wanting what he couldn't have, either.

Norrington appeared momentarily baffled, and Gillette wondered whether it was because of his words, or because of the sorry sight he had to be, the lovesick fool throwing himself at the feet of his beloved and begging him not to add to his torment. It was completely pathetic.

"Forgive me, Andrew," Norrington said quietly, averting his eyes. "I had never meant to-"

“Please, don’t be sorry," Gillette interrupted him, his heart sinking. Now that he had finally heard those dreaded words, the words he had desperately hoped not to hear, there was no stopping him. "Don’t regret it. Maybe it was not the best thing to do and maybe it wasn’t right, but-” His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to endure the sight of his friend anymore, as his eyes filled with tears. Stubbornly, he blinked them back, determined not to break down in front of the man he respected beyond all others. "Let me confess to you, honestly and without reservation," he continued in a low voice, "that last night you gave me the most precious memory of you that I have, and I shall cherish it for as long as I live. I would never presume you feel the same about me, and would not think less of you for it if you cannot." He let out a bitter laugh. "I'm perfectly aware that I'm a poor substitute for a pirate captain, and cannot help despising him even more for having stolen your heart with such ease. But since there is nothing else I would dare ask from you, please grant me this one thing: don't regret the best thing that has ever happened to me."

He looked into Norrington’s eyes again with masochistic, self-castigating resolution. “I love you, James. Not like a friend, not like a brother, but in every way Andrew Gillette can ever love someone. You mean everything to me. Please, don’t punish me further.”

***

A long silence followed in which Norrington stared at Gillette, at the tears in his eyes and his lips pressed together fiercely. He hadn't expected anything like that at all. He had wanted to beg Gillette's pardon, that much was true, but for entirely different reasons!

For years, he had kept up appearances, had maintained a professional distance and steered clear of topics that hit too close to what he tried to keep hidden. He had renounced his true nature, and subdued his despicable feelings – not only because his conscience and his upbringing dictated him to, but also because he was perfectly certain that an expression of such desires would be anything but appreciated. Gillette had never given him the impression of sharing his inclinations, so he thought it best to keep them to himself. He never wanted his friend to feel shame, anger, or disgust on his behalf.

Jack Sparrow had been extraordinarily perceptive. From the moment they had met face to face on the docks, the pirate had known exactly how to poke, prod, and tease him to get what he wanted. He had uncovered his secret with incredible speed, and then made sure he was the one to profit from it.

It was not love. Neither of them professed anything of the kind, or even made any assurances concerning exclusivity. If Jack Sparrow had any particular reasons to have entered into this arrangement, he never shared them, and neither did Norrington divulge his own. But over time, what had started out as entirely physical turned into something akin to friendship, a casual, comfortable intimacy. Their trysts no longer just served the satisfaction of their carnal desires but had transformed into something more. They started sharing their minds as well as their bodies, discussed current events, told each other stories – some true, some less so – and simply enjoyed each other's company.

And then, suddenly, it had all ended, with a short drop and a sudden stop. The irony of it all! He should have known this moment would come eventually, should have been prepared for it, but he hadn't been. Sparrow's death had caught him completely by surprise, taking him more than just a while to sink in. And then, instead of feeling relieved - as his duty would dictate him to - he found himself in mourning, knowing that he would truly, honestly miss the blackguard. The only person to know all of him and still desire his company. Even when he was just a substitute.

In a moment of madness, he had thrown his caution, his common sense, and his manners overboard. He had taken advantage of his best friend, his closest confidant, his most loyal of subordinates. He had abused his friendship, betrayed his trust, and – what was even worse – had urged him to become an accomplice in a crime punishable by death.

He had made him feel like a stopgap, a warm body to fill the void Jack Sparrow's demise had left in his bed and in his heart, when it was actually the other way around.

He had acted selfishly when he should have put his friend's needs first.

But everything was different now.

Unable to keep his distance any longer, not when Gillette was looking at him with those pleading, loving eyes, Norrington closed the distance between them and put his arms firmly around Gillette's shaking frame, pulling him close. Immediately, the other man returned the embrace, clinging to him fiercely, as if afraid to lose him again. They were complete.

"Andrew..." he began, his voice soft and careful while he was holding his friend – his _love_ \- close, feeling his heart pounding against his chest. "I beg your pardon for the fool I have been. It has never been my intent to hurt you, but I know I have done so. I cannot make it all undone, but permit me at least to set things right. I took advantage of our friendship last night. I have made you feel like a substitute, which you weren't. Andrew, you have always been my loyal friend. You've never failed me, never deserted me. You've supported me tirelessly. You gave me something to hold on to when everything around me shattered. You did not deserve to be treated this way. I wish I had realized earlier that you are devoted to me like I am devoted to you, but I am not the most perceptive of men when it comes to the emotions of others."

Gillette gave him a fond smile. "My dear James, I fear that even if you had known, nothing would have come of it," he said, his voice shaky, hesitant, as if he were afraid to wake up from a dream. "You would have considered your duty – and my honour – above everything else, and I would have been doomed to pine for you forever." He chuckled. "I suppose I should be grateful to…" He trailed off, looking suddenly guilty. "I'm sorry, James. I do realize that you – and especially Sparrow – paid very dearly for my happiness." He hesitated for a moment. "Even if I _am_ a substitute," he said finally, "trust me when I say I am glad to be."

Norrington placed a gentle kiss on the other man's forehead. "Dear, foolish Andrew! It is true that I liked Captain Sparrow, appreciated him for who he was, for he was so different from me. He was adventurous, he ignored every law apart from his own - he was the man I could never be. But he was unreliable, he was fickle and he was unfaithful. He played with me like with a prize, just to let me fall and pick me up again. I never felt safe with him. Unlike you, he was no man to spend a lifetime with. He never made me feel as you do."

***

Gillette felt as if his heart would burst in his chest. At first he didn't dare to believe what he was hearing. It all seemed too good to be true, too much to ask for! But the feeling of holding the other man close, the warmth he radiated, his unmistakable, addictive scent… it was all real, and his words were real, too.

He blinked against Norrington's coat, incapable of holding back his tears any longer, only now they were of happiness, of relief, of unbridled joy. They ran down his face unstopped, soaking their coats.

When their eyes locked again, it was nothing like before. Now, Norrington's eyes were more than a mirror to his mind. From one moment to the next, he had opened the door to his heart. There was warmth in those green eyes, warmth that surrounded him and made him feel safe, loved, cherished.

"I... I'm sorry... I must be a poor sight," Gillette finally said with a weak smile and he immediately regretted the words. It was not the place to be sorry, neither the time. But he couldn't help it. He was embarrassed at his appearance, ashamed to have made such a scene, to be crying like a schoolboy.

But Norrington shook his head and lifted his hand to Gillette's face, softly wiping his tears away. "You are beautiful," he said, "weeping or smiling," and with soft pressure, he brought Gillette's face close to his and kissed him. The salty taste of his beloved's tears made his heart leap and he licked them away, as if to claim back the unnecessary pain he had caused.

And between kisses, he whispered against Andrew Gillette's lips almost inaudibly but true, "I love you too, Andrew."

***

Much later that evening, after the sun had set and the moon had risen, a dark shadow slipped past the large library windows of Commodore Norrington's house and remained there for a while, a pair of lively dark eyes peering past the heavy curtains and feasting on the sight of two Naval officers in a loving embrace.

Then, the last candle in the house was blown out, and Captain Jack Sparrow, alive and kicking, emerged from the shadows, a satisfied smirk on his face as he made his way back to the docks. Only a very careful listener would have heard the words he was cheerfully muttering under his breath.

_"I cannot change, as others do, though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you, For you alone was born..."_


	2. Breaking the Chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lost scene from "The Letter", written as proof for the argument that Gillington can be sexy - which, apparently, is under dispute. ;)

Norrington would never, not in his wildest dreams, have expected this to happen. It was as if a door had been opened to a new world, unknown but exciting, beckoning him to take one step, then another...

He had never permitted himself to look at his fellow officer the way he was looking at him now, not like a friend, or a lieutenant, but like the attractive, handsome young man he was. His eyes all but caressed the soft lines of the other man's face, his slightly parted lips and his flushed cheeks, his neck, until a white shirt refused him the sight of further skin. He wanted to remove the man's wig and dig his fingers into those thick, red curls, kiss every single freckle on his milky-white face, trace the contours of his neck with his tongue.

Only dimly aware of his own behaviour, Norrington took a few slow steps towards Gillette, who looked at him with big eyes and seemed just as overwhelmed by the situation. Norrington would have given everything he had to know what the other man was thinking. He had just read the letter, had understood its implications. But there was no disgust in his eyes, no shame, no anger. If anything, he seemed apprehensive, maybe even hopeful - as if he were waiting for something to happen but too shy to do anything about it. The temptation to just take him in his arms and kiss him was impossible to resist.

Almost by accident, his hand brushed against Gillette's, and it felt so good yet so insufficient.

A mere second later, he lost the battle, and with it the war. It started out as a mere brush of lips against lips, like the meeting of their hands just before, but encouraged by Gillette's immediate response, Norrington's fingers moved to cup the other man's neck, pulling him closer while greedily tasting those lips. His free arm slung around Gillette's hip, pressing their bodies together so tightly as if they had been miles apart. He felt the moan against his mouth and he swallowed it, eager to elicit another. Their tongues fought their own battle, neither willing to back down until they were forced to, when both men were too aroused to keep the duel up. When they finally broke the kiss, they were breathless and completely perplexed, eyeing each other with wonder and surprise in their eyes. Was this real? Gillette's hands were warm in his own grasp, his breath hot against the taller man's neck, his lips wet and swollen from kissing. It felt so real and was so entirely unbelievable at the same time.

They had taken the first step, and they had taken it quickly, without any hesitation, without any questions. Norrington could not bring himself to care. Not now. Not when his whole body urged him to touch that handsome man again, not when he wanted to kiss the soul out of him, to finally know him inside out. Gently, Norrington took Gillette's hand, burning against his like pure fire, and the two men hurried up the stairs to his bedroom. He didn't want to wait, he was positively sick and tired of waiting for something just to see it slip out of his grasp, and he certainly had no intention of letting this chance pass. The doors flung open, and with a quick shove, Norrington pushed the younger man on the bed and himself on top of him. His mouth claimed Gillette's fiercely, nibbling and biting, his tongue exploring hungrily, passionately, while his hands worked with the buttons of their breeches, impatiently tugging at them until they surrendered, except for the last one, which met the floor soon after but was mercilessly ignored. There was no time to think about that. Norrington wanted only one thing right now, and he wanted it desperately, as if he had been living in celibacy all of his life. His past experiences had suddenly vanished from his memory, erased by the perfection, the joy of this very moment, and the exciting prospect of more. He couldn't wait to finally having the man he had always wanted, to find out how it would be to turn his closest friend into his lover now that he had the opportunity. They were going too slowly. Growing impatient, Norrington released Gillette's lips from his own, pulled the man's breeches down his legs and tossed them carelessly behind him before hurriedly ridding himself of his own. They were both panting - and how sweetly the little ragged breaths emerged those wonderful lips! How absolutely arousing the sight of Gillette was, his friend, his lieutenant, in only his shirt and stockings, sprawled on his bed like the most wonderful feast he could imagine. How he _wanted_ him.

"I…" Norrington managed, his deep voice hoarse with lust, "I want…" He swallowed, suddenly shy. It was obvious what he wanted, and how much he craved it. Did Gillette want the same? The man had kissed and touched him like a lover, fervently and with passion, but would he really want for them to go all the way?

He couldn't finish what he had wanted to say, for he was interrupted by a word so desperate, so intense; it almost sounded like a prayer. "Please… take me…" Norrington did not ask twice. He lifted Gillette's legs and pushed his face between them, licking and kissing and nibbling at every inch of exposed skin, savouring the unique, musky taste of him. If he could have this forever, he would not want for anything else. His heart beat like a drum in his chest, speeding up with every gasp, every low moan his tongue elicited from his lover. He worshipped this man, like a painter his favourite portrait, a poet his favourite poem.

Gillette squirmed more and more under his touch, his cock leaking as Norrington took his time to gently open him up, and the sight was so perfect, so utterly arousing that he could hardly contain himself. His entire being ached to be inside him, to claim him. When he finally removed his fingers, placing one last lick on the twitching hole, he was so hard it almost hurt. Wasting no time, he spat on his hand, rubbed the saliva on his cruelly neglected cock and entered Gillette with one slow, long thrust. It felt so good that he had to bite his lip to keep himself under control, until he was buried all the way inside him. The breath he had been holding left him in a deep, guttural moan. Eager to feel that pleasure again, he pulled back, almost retreating completely, before he pushed back in, stronger and more powerful this time, pausing to watch Gillette's face, hoping he had not hurt him. But none of the noises Gillette was making were sounds of pain. He was panting through parted lips, his head thrown back against the pillow, his eyes closed as his fingers wrapped around his own length, pumping slowly. His lover looked as if he were seized by absolute bliss. A quick smile brushed over Norrington's lips and as suddenly as he had stopped, he resumed their lovemaking, increasing the force of his thrusts steadily until he had almost reached his limit and was pounding into the man under him, the tight heat undoing him more with every move he made. But he kept his rhythm, enjoyed the sounds that hung in the air like a big cloud, fuelling him steadily until he almost couldn't hold back anymore. He bit his lip hard to fight the urge to let go, but he drew blood, and he couldn't think of anything more proper than to share. Gillette responded eagerly, pressing his mouth to Norrington's as he bent down, licking him clean before pulling back and gasping for air, so loudly one would think he was choking.

The angle was different now, but the pace was the same – hard, fast, relentless, pushing Gillette closer to orgasm while at the same time restraining himself enough not to come too early. But he was close, too close. Suddenly, Gillette gasped, bit his lip, and came in several violent spurts all across his hand and stomach. His entire body shook, insides clenching around Norrington's cock, and he had never been more beautiful than in this very moment. With a few, well-aimed thrusts, Norrington followed his beloved over the edge, completing their union. Groaning loudly, he spent himself inside Gillette before collapsing next to the other man, completely exhausted and trying to remember how to breathe.

When, finally, night fell, the two men were curled up against each other in a tight embrace as the waves outside the window sang them to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on 20th-Dec-2005 04:20 am.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on 6th-Oct-2005 10:50 pm.


End file.
